to the highest bidder
by envysparkler
Summary: She had the feeling she had just been bought. – Draco/Hermione.
1. i'd destroy the world

**a/n:** i seem to have developed an affinity for oneshots.

**dedication:** to the family that will love you no matter what.

**disclaimer:** don't own harry potter.

**summary: **She had the feeling she had just been bought. – Draco/Hermione.

* * *

**to the highest bidder**

* * *

_i'd destroy the world, just to show you how it burns_

* * *

This was an auction.

A pretty, opulent, glittering affair, but an auction nonetheless.

She sipped the shimmering drink in her wineglass and smiled – a sharp sort of smile. The Riddle Charity Dinner had always been an extravaganza, and this night was no different. Filled with the upper strata of society, jewels glinted everywhere, reflecting from the glass chandeliers and golden decorations. Women stuffed into tight satin dresses twirled with men whose hands were stained with blood and wore suits of velvet and silk.

The atmosphere was stifling, a thousand auras of power clashing, vying for dominance and control. Every eye was on another, forever plotting, scheming, and none more so than the man in the middle of the room.

He was surrounded by a group of simpering ladies, his dark, dark eyes scanning every part of the room, looking like a spider sitting in the middle of a web he had spun himself, watching and waiting for his next prey.

He caught sight of her, looking dauntingly gorgeous as her mascara-veiled eyes observed everyone, and smiled – a dark sort of smile. Her _father_ – as he called himself – beckoned to her, all charming smiles and dark grins for the people that fawned around him.

They called him a philanthropist, the most pious and charitable person alive, a man who'd never dare stray from his ideals. Hermione supposed one out of three wasn't too bad.

But Tom Marvolo Riddle's ideals were the stuff of children's nightmares. Born to a mother who once lived like royalty, reduced to begging on the streets by the very commoner that had married her; he built up his fortune by blackmailing and stealing, worming his way back into high society with money in one hand and a knife in the other.

He said he was touched by the plight of other children in the orphanage he grew up in, and resolved to give back what the world had given him.

But Hermione knew, as well as anyone, that the world had given him pain and despair, a darkness that still fed on his heart, and a malicious vengeance. He had adopted her, from the same orphanage – _Cooper's Home for Children _– not out of pity and empathy, but for the same reason he had done everything else.

He was the sort of man who'd ruin the world, just to see it die.

Hermione made her way towards her father, the ethereal silver dress he had given her fluttering about her, catching the eye of every male suitor in the place. She sipped her drink and smiled, laughing at jokes, covering a dark grin behind a modest hand as her father placed a hand on the small of her back, seeming for all the world, a proud father.

She knew better. She had, after all, learned everything she knew from him.

He was mentally scanning everyone who came up to talk to them, who gave their simpering compliments and back-handed flattery. Every jewel that shone on their throats, every cut of silk that whispered in the air, every gleam of wealth that twinkled in the air, he observed and noted. He watched as they made subtle hints, and waited as they showed their threats, listening and looking for the most powerful in the room.

Hermione felt like a priceless artifact.

Everyone wanted to marry the gracious, beautiful adopted daughter of a man who – at nearly 40 – looked as young as half her suitors, and attracted nearly every woman with a mysterious smile.

"Tom Riddle, it's been too long," a man sidled up, eying Hermione like she was a piece of meat for the taking. Time had been good to him as well, hair more silver then gray, and a _quiet_ sort of wealth present in every lapel and diamond. She knew that it was these people, the ones who possessed _old_ money, as it were, that were truly the most dangerous of all.

"Lucius," her father's face was inscrutable as he shook the man's hand and kissed his wife's, "This must be your wife, Narcissa. I must say, you're lucky to have someone as beautiful as her."

The man laughed darkly, "She says about the same, every time she goes out shopping." His wife gave him a silent glare before accepting the compliment.

"But when will _you_ settle down, Tom?" the man asked, the small-talk not distracting her father from seeing the way the man's eyes roved over Hermione's form, "You won't look that young forever."

"The company isn't going to run itself, Lucius," he reminded, "And I have a stunning daughter I need to devote my time to."

Hermione would've snorted in her drink if not for the reminder of just how cruel Tom Riddle could be. Politely excusing herself, she handed her empty glass to a server and picked another exotically-colored drink.

From as long as she could remember, the dark man who had called himself her father, had pushed her to be the best. Most of those who didn't think him threatening had never seen the red glint in his eyes, the fanatical mania that possessed him, the dark, wrathful aura that was exuded like poison.

He needed more money – not for financial troubles – for connections and power and the birthright that had been denied to him for so long.

And the rich and powerful have always known that the quickest way to ensure their wealth was by marriage.

Her father called her again, and the intense look in his eyes told Hermione that this was not an invitation she could deny.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her feet from standing in five-inch stilettos, and the burning in her lungs from the tightened corset, she gracefully glided towards him, downing her drink and hoping alcohol would dull the pain.

"This is my daughter, Hermione," her father introduced to the man standing next to him.

He had the same silver-blonde hair of his father, but his was a more striking, vibrant color, and the pale skin showed his youth. He couldn't have been more than a year older than her, but the searing look in his gray eyes told her that he was as ruthless as a wolf and as devious as a snake, calculating and calm.

"Hermione, this is Draco Malfoy." She extended her hand, like a proper lady, and he kissed it, not missing her flinch as he dragged sharpened teeth lightly over her knuckles.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Hermione responded, the sickly tone of her voice failing to disguise the poison in her gaze.

"The pleasure's all mine," he replied in kind, his piercing eyes regarding her so forcefully that Hermione took a step back, heart pounding, feeling as if he had just laid her greatest secrets bare. She could call him handsome, but it was a frightening sort of beauty, all angles and slashes, like a burning dragon, prowling for the kill.

"Draco has inherited the company from his father," her father continued, "Impressive, at such a young age." Hermione tried to smile, looking everywhere but the haunting gaze that burned her. "The diamond bracelet you're wearing right now is actually a gift from him."

Her eyes snapped up to her father, terrified, as her fears were confirmed. He was smiling and nodding, looking disgustingly delighted; while Draco's eyes never left her, a cruel smirk freezing his face.

This was an auction.

And she had just been sold.

* * *

**le fin –**

* * *

_i'd set you on fire, just to hear you scream_**  
**

* * *

_- _**for now**

* * *

**a/n: **so? you likey? not up to my usual standards, i know, but this idea wouldn't leave me until i wrote it.


	2. i'd set you on fire

**a/n:** yes, this has been expanded into a three-shot. all praises go to **itsjillian** for irritating me to continue it.

**dedication:** to the growing dread of studying, and the looming feeling that you won't get any sleep tonight.

**disclaimer:** pfft.

* * *

**to the highest bidder**

* * *

_i'd set you on fire, just to hear you scream_

* * *

A trophy wife.

She supposed she should've expected that.

Hermione smiled and giggled as her husband introduced her to yet another one of his business acquaintances. It was another extravaganza – for something or the other, Hermione had long since stopped caring – and the first occasion for Draco to show off his new wife.

They had gotten married scarcely two weeks after her father had introduced her to the cruel, cunning heir of Malfoy Enterprises – it had been a profligate affair. The mountains of flowers, the silk covered seats, the altar of rosewood and a minister that had been flown in from Italy.

Hermione was thankful for the fact that all she had to do was wear a voluminous white dress, and look pretty.

Many of members of high society turned up, the newspapers terming it as the wedding of the century. Even royalty sat in the seats and watched as she walked down the aisle. The reception had last for a day; as Hermione stayed two inches from Draco's side – no more, no less – and greeted the guests she had never invited.

Her father looked approvingly at her – he had taught her _something_, at the very least – while Draco's parents were cool and courteous.

The Riddle fortune shot up, exponentially while the Malfoy Enterprises shares sold out in record time.

When the party finally drew to a close, she and Draco left – he drove them to an old, intimidating mansion, where he showed her, her room – _her_ room, not theirs – and left.

This was the first time she had seen him in three weeks.

Draco finished talking with a board executive and walked back towards her, giving her a smile that was nothing but fake.

"Shall we go, sweetheart?" his tone was condescending and his gray eyes showed nothing but contempt.

"I was just about to look for you, darling," Hermione reveled in the way his eyes flashed, "I'm so frightfully exhausted." Draco steered her out of the hall and handed her, her cashmere cloak before getting into the car – all without even grazing her skin.

They drove back in silence, the same way they had come, and Hermione's eyes narrowed when she saw the familiar glass spires in the distance.

The mansion was stunning, beautiful – and hopelessly dismal.

He dropped her off and turned back the way they had come, speeding off into the distance.

Hermione stared suspiciously at the back of the high-end luxury car, contemplating where he was going.

Away from her – that was obvious.

Sighing, she entered the manor, making a beeline for the kitchen. What she really needed was to get drunk.

* * *

Unfortunately, she held her alcohol pretty well, so she was left staring morosely at her tenth drink, still depressingly sober.

She was like a glass doll – pretty and stunning and undeniably gorgeous. A doll that had been passed from hand to hand to exclaim over its worth. And finally, when it was bought, it was put on a dark shelf, far away – so that it was never broken, so that it remained pretty, so that it stayed in its little fragile form.

Only, she wasn't made of glass.

Growing up with the world's most dangerous man – even if the world didn't know it yet – had a way of hardening even the most faint of heart.

Contemplating the colorless liquid swirling in the blown Venetian glass, she didn't notice when her husband entered, until he picked up the vodka bottle in front of her and took a gulp, straight.

"My, my," she drawled, observing how the little bubbles magnified the kitchen into strange, blurry, distorted shapes, "Someone's in a bad mood."

She might have not been drunk, but she wasn't completely sober – as illustrated by her lack of self-preservation instincts.

"I'm not the one wallowing in grief at four in the morning," his tone was acidic – as always.

"Touché," she replied, "Who comes _home_ at four in the morning?"

"People who have lives."

"Oh. Tell me when you find yours," Hermione sneered, before giggling at her own joke. He was silent, and took another gulp.

"I suppose this is where I yell at you, like a jealous wife," Hermione contemplated, looking at him for the first time, "But since I don't care – who is she?"

Draco Malfoy no longer looked like the same person she had met, a month and a half before. His pale face was gaunt, and stress lines had began appearing. There were circles under his gray eyes. And his sleek hair hung limp, reflecting his sorry state.

It was like someone had taken him apart. And the person who had put him back together had no idea how a human – let alone her husband – tended to look.

If she thought he was a dragon before, it was a wolf standing in front of her now – an injured, weary wolf, limping warily on the harsh winter frost.

A wolf – though she didn't realize it – was none the less powerful, and all the more dangerous.

"Who is who?" Draco replied, taking another swig.

"The woman you're been sleeping with," Hermione snorted, "Fucking, taking your frustrations out on. Who is she?"

Draco made a sound somewhere between a snigger and a yawn, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You haven't touched me since the day we met," Hermione said, thinking of his teeth on her skin, the ice-cold grip that encased her wrist.

The gesture was an archaic symbol of loyalty, of a knight swearing fealty to his princess. It figures he would twist it – in the only way he knew how.

"I didn't marry you for mind games, woman," this time, Hermione was pleased to hear a note of anger in his tone, "What the _fuck_ are you _talking_ about?"

"Or is it a man," Hermione mused, stoking his temper even further as she put down her glass, "I prefer the opposite sex, but – to each its own, right?"

Her glass was swept to the side and Hermione jumped back to avoid the pieces as it shattered against the floor – he had obviously figured it out.

"A bit slow, aren't you," she taunted him further, "I had hoped my father would've married me to an _intelligent_ man, though we don't always get what we wish for."

"Shut up!" he slowly advanced on her, vodka bottle long forgotten, a deep, fierce anger roiling behind his storm-gray eyes.

All traces of the alcohol in her system cleared as he stalked forward and Hermione belatedly realized it was not a good idea to goad him. But she couldn't resist, _one_ last jab, "I hit a little too close to home, huh?"

And _that_ – that, right there – was why they say; _be careful what you wish for_.

"**SHUT UP!"** he crossed the few steps that separated them and slammed her into a wall, his fingers closing around her throat. Hermione weakly scrabbled against his hand, her head pushed further up as he dangled her a few inches off the floor.

"You think I prefer men?" he hissed into her ear, the growing fear in her chest bursting at the sound of his furious voice, "Do you want me to _prove_ you wrong, Her–_mi_–o–_ne_?" White-hot panic ran through her veins as she heard her name being brutally massacred by his sickly tone.

He grabbed the front of the dress she had still not changed out of – and pulled, ripping the fabric in a horrendous screech. Hermione was sobbing now, the hysteria clouding her senses, "Stop, p-please, just stop!" A part of her burned inside at the thought of her desperate begging.

"Oh, I don't think you know your place, _wife_," he snarled, tracing an icy finger against the contours of her ribs, "I don't think you've learned your _lesson_."

"No, I-I have," Hermione choked out from his suffocating grip, her feet standing on tip-toe as she was crushed against the wall, "I-I'm s-sorry, _please_, j-just –"

"You're not in any position to make demands!" he sneered, his fingers growing lower and lower, tearing the dress – the silky blue couture, with a bodice of diamonds – on his way.

Hermione lost any semblance of rationality, of honor, of pride. She lost the stubborn streak that had gotten her into so much trouble. Abandoning the thoughts of her embarrassment, of humiliation at his sick expense, she looked him in the eye – gray clashing with brown – the tears flowing freely down her cheeks, and put all her pleading in one beseeching word, "_Draco._"

He blinked once, as if the use of his name – the first time she had said it – had brought him out of some trance. Staring at the hand that pinned her against the wall as if it belonged to someone else, he released her abruptly.

Hermione collapsed on the ground, in the mess of what was – _had been_ – a beautiful gown, drawing her knees up as she heard his fading footsteps, curling into herself and sobbing at the thoughts of what could've – and almost had – happened.

She was a glass doll, but this time – this time, she'd been thrown away.

* * *

**le fin -**

* * *

_i'd ruin the stars, just to see your smile_

* * *

**- for now**

* * *

**a/n:** well. here it is. one last chapter on the way.


	3. i'd ruin the stars

**a/n:** and finally, the last installment of **to the highest bidder**. may your predictions come true, **itsjillian**.

**dedication:** to the redemption that everyone deserves.

**disclaimer:** don't own.

* * *

**to the highest bidder**

* * *

_i'd ruin the stars, just to see your smile_

* * *

Broken goods.

First she'd been bought, then exhibited, and now, thrown away because of a hairline fracture.

Hermione slowly peered out from corner, and sighed in relief when she saw that no one was there. Tip-toeing on the plush carpets, she warily eyed every patch of shadow and blackened niche.

Jumping as she heard the low hoot of an owl, Hermione placed a hand on her heart, desperate for it to stop its frantic beating.

The achluophobia was a side effect of her years at the orphanage, at the dingy, wasted place, of standing in a pitch-black closet for punishments, of waking up in terror in her bed at night. It had gotten better in the Riddle mansion, but there were still nights that she had knocked on her father's door, shyly asking if she could come in.

But there, she had the liberty to blaze her entire wing with light. She didn't think Draco would take too kindly to it here, wasting his precious money on electricity bills.

Freezing when she saw a shadow move, she fearfully turned towards it. _It's your imagination_ her hand chanted, but she still felt it was real, alive, coming to kill her –

"What in the hell's name are you doing outside my room at two in the morning?" a familiar annoyed voice came from behind it. There was the click of a switch and suddenly, the entire corridor was bathed in light.

Squinting against the light, she moved away from her husband. They hadn't met since the incident, nearly a week ago, when she realized just how dangerous her psycho of a husband was.

"First you call me gay, now I'm a psycho?" Draco said wryly.

Hermione gulped and blinked away the dark spots clouding her vision. She really had to stop thinking out loud.

"But it's so entertaining," this time, there was a pronounced amusement in his tone.

Clamping her mouth shut, Hermione turned a delicate shade of red. Her husband didn't look nearly as threatening in bright light, without a vodka bottle in his hand. He was standing in front of a mahogany door – presumably his room – and looked adorably rumpled.

His eyes were still bleary with sleep and his perfect hair was mussed and sticking out in different directions. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants – the only casual clothing she had every seen him in. While she was observing him, he stifled a yawn behind a hand.

"I was going to the kitchen?" Hermione slowly edged away from him. Their last encounter had set her on-edge and therefore it was a frazzled, stressed woman that woke up after a long-forgotten nightmare, seeing the shapes form in the gloom.

He regarded her suspiciously, a hint of a smile still playing about his lips, "The kitchen is on the other side of the manor."

"Ah, right," Hermione's face burned at her inadequacy with finding her way around the house, "I knew that." Resolutely not looking at him, she strode off in the other directions, her sensitive ears catching the faint trace of fading snickers as she attempted to make her way to the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the place did nothing to calm her down. She had started making a cup of hot chocolate, but her nerves grew even more strained as strange noises started creaking and scratching. She still remembered that night, and every time she closed her eyes, she could see his furious face and the intentions displayed so obviously in his eyes.

Abandoning the chocolaty drink, Hermione warily edged away from the room, arming herself with a knife as a precaution.

It did nothing to help – she still saw the figures materialize out of the gloom, the pressing darkness trying to suffocate her, the noises that were magnified by her heightened senses.

She froze when she heard the scratching of a tree branch, and the moaning of floorboards under her feet. She jumped when she felt the whisper of wind on her neck, and the indistinct words it mumbled.

Hermione turned another corridor, walking faster in her panic. Half-blind, her hysteria only grew when she realized she had stumbled into a hallway of barricaded rooms. Her heart thumping louder and faster, tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes, Hermione nearly ran down the corridor, crashing into something at the end.

In an instant, that something had wrenched the knife out of her hands, pinned her against the wall and whispered harshly into her ears, "What the fuck are you doing with a _knife_?"

It was too much.

She had grown up in a dismal orphanage. She had been raised by a heartless man. She had been married – against her will – to a man with almost no morals and even less of a conscience. She had been forced to act in balls and galas and parties her entire life – forced to be someone she wasn't, to do things she had never wanted to do. She was locked in a mansion straight out of a horror story, moping about in her room – alone. She had been assaulted by her husband. She was wandering the dark, trying to suppress her phobia and failing miserably. And she had just been attacked in the middle of the night.

The panic in her chest burst, her heart simply unable to take more stress. Giving way to the hysteria, Hermione slid down the wall, curling up into a tight ball, and started sobbing.

The tears ran freely down her cheeks, marking her with its trails as she wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them to her chest. She couldn't take any more – wouldn't, _shouldn't_ have to take more.

All her life, she was looking for affection. She didn't get any from the crisp attendants at the orphanage, nor from the father that scorned weakness. Her last hope had been her husband, but it seemed that disappointment was waiting there as well.

All she wanted was to be loved – was that so wrong?

Lost in her world of self-pity and humiliation, she didn't noticed when Draco knelt in front of her, until he asked – in a voice so soft she didn't recognize it as his, "Hermione, what's wrong?"

Momentarily shocked, she looked up to meet his gray eyes. They were swirling with emotions to fast and tangled to decipher, but – realizing she had just exposed her red, blurry, puffed-up face to him, she burrowed back into her arms, and started sniffing again, cheeks burning at the embarrassment.

She heard his low sigh of impatience – he wasn't get any information out of her. It was bad enough that she had broke down in front of him, she didn't need to tell him more secrets to add to his disposal.

Fully intending to hide in her arms until he went away, she was taken by surprise when strong arms wrapped around her, one snaking at the back of her knees, the other supporting her shoulder blades. Stunned, she looked up to him, watching his annoyed face as they moved back to the corridor he had first caught her in, entering the door he had stood in front of.

Staring at this uncharacteristic display, she yelped in shock as he unceremoniously dumped her on the bed.

It was a very nice bed – Hermione couldn't help but notice the thousand-count sheets, the silk hangings, the comfy mattress, the fluffy pillows laid out on the master bed.

Bewildered, she watched – content to lie on the bed – as Draco shut the door and turned off the lights. Her heart momentarily stilled at the sudden darkness and then started again, beating fast as ever as she heard the rustling of sheets – he had joined her.

"Draco?" Hermione cursed her voice for wavering, "I – what?" He had suddenly grabbed her by the waist and tugged her towards him, extracting the blankets from under her. She swallowed nervously as she found herself sleeping right next to the husband she had minimal contact with for nearly two months.

"Draco, why have you brought me here?" her voice sounded panicked and high-pitched.

He merely burrowed his face in the hollow of her neck – surreptitiously sniffing her lemon-scented hair – before mumbling, "What, expected me to leave my wife crying in the middle of the corridor?"

"Well, yes," Hermione answered honestly, that was exactly what she had been expecting him to do.

He groaned, the vibrations moving down her neck and giving her a tickling feeling, "Whatever – go to sleep woman, it's two in the morning." He tucked her closer under his arm, cuddling her.

Hermione blinked – before a slow smile grew on her face, "Teddy bear at the dry cleaner's, Draco?" He chose not to dignify her question with a response and – after uttering a dry laugh – she snuggled into his warm embrace.

That which is broken, can be repaired.

* * *

**le -**

* * *

Glares. "Give. Back. Mr. Bear."

"Oh, no, Draco." Giggles. Holds stuffed dog further out of reach. "Does this mean you're gay, after all?"

* * *

**- fin**

* * *

**a/n:** …i have no idea what just happened. like for seriously. no idea. but who doesn't love the idea of snuggling draco? also, to those of you who celebrate valentine's/singles awareness day, share your presents and gifts! also, who gave them to you… /winks/


End file.
